The Unexpected Return
by Jemma Bethxo
Summary: A one-shot. When John hears someone offering him a coffee, he doesn't expect it to be London's dead Consulting Detective.


**A/N: Firstly, I don't own anything Sherlock wise though I wished I did. Secondly, sorry to anyone whose been reading my other fics, I know they're unfinished but I have complete writers block for them. I'll try and get something up soon-Ish, I'm busy with college, too. I apologise. Thirdly, I also apologise if any spelling errors occur or any words are used incorrectly, autocorrect on my iPad is a bitch sometimes. **

**This is my first Sherlock fic and also my first one-shot so I hope you enjoy. It's the first fic I've written that's actually been finished! Feel free to review when you've read it :) xo**

**For you, Sam :P xxx**

John hauled his tired body out of the cab when it pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. He briefly wondered what the cabbie was going through in his day to day life. If he was ill, happy, anything that would affect him on a personal level. Would he go and kill multiple people in order to outlive them? 'A Study in Pink' John thought. That's what he'd titled that update on his blog. It seemed like yesterday he'd sat editing it before posting the entire thing. Sherlock had been standing over his shoulder in a quest to make it a less story and heroic-like piece and more factual. The only problem was, Sherlock wasn't there just yesterday. Nor was he the day before that, or the day before that. In fact, Sherlock hadn't been there in about three years.

Upon letting himself into the flat, John's head began to hurt. It often did whenever he thought the smallest thing about Sherlock. But at the same time, it was incredibly hard not to. Everywhere he turned, there was a reminder of him. His laptop still sat on the desk, dust covered and a dead battery. The yellow spray painted smiley face on the wall had not been painted over and the gun shots inside of the smiley face had not been recovered. Everything inside of 221B reminded John of Sherlock. But it was all too much, the thought, the simple idea of throwing out Sherlock's things made John ill.

John pulled open the creaky door of a kitchen cupboard in search for some tea bags or a jar of coffee. He had neither. Speedy's Cafe it would have to be then. His coat came back on and the loose change made it out of his pocket before he made it down to the cafe right next door to his flat. John ordered his usual coffee and fumbled clumsily with the change in his hand. The waiter behind the counter huffed impatiently and made a start on the coffee. John was just about hand over his £1.20 over when he dropped a coin. He cursed under his breath and bent down to catch the coin before it rolled riot any more with the intentions of handing it over. He pulled himself up off the floor and smacked his head on the edge of the counter top. Cursing again, he rubbed the back of his head when he heard the shop door open and saw a pair of feet making their way towards him. John stood up and stumbled into the arms of the man in front of him who held him steady and oddly protectively. John's mouth opened to apologise but was instantly stopped by the taller man's hoarse yet somehow familiar voice.

"Can I buy you a coffee, John?"

At first thought, John assumed it was Mycroft but knew all too well that the chances of government worker, dead-consulting-detective-of-London's brother, Mycroft Holmes would in no way offer John a coffee. John looked up.

'No, don't be ridiculous.' His subconscious spat. 'Sherlock Holmes died, still is dead and will always be dead.' But John saw otherwise. This wasn't another one of those times where he saw a Sherlock lookalike in the street. A small part of him had hoped, begged for any one of them to be Sherlock but they never had been. But this time was different.

Those eyes, the way they looked at John. That hair, those curls. Tangled, had seen better days but that didn't matter. Those cheekbones, more pronounced than before. His skin, once pale, now slightly grey and ill. The coat was still there. It was dirty and a little shoddy and so was the scarf but the point was, this was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who'd saved him from his apparent post-traumatic stress from the war. Sherlock Holmes who'd given him something to wake up to every morning. An adventure, a crime, an investigation. The adrenaline, the laughter, the enlightenment, the friendship. It was all standing right in front of John Watson once again, buried somewhere inside of this one person. Sherlock Holmes.

Words couldn't quite reach the tip of John's tongue. They were a jumbled mess inside of his mind. His brow furrowed a little and he began to wonder if he'd gained concussion that was starting to deeply affect him.

"I'm sorry...What?" John asked, voice cracking.

Sherlock's brow also furrowed, assuming John had not heard the question.

"I asked if I could-"

"Yes, yes. I heard you." John cut in and muttered a cancellation on his coffee over the counter, much to the waiter's annoyance. "Excuse me a minute." He said more to the floor rather than Sherlock and pushed past Sherlock in order to gain some fresh air outside.

John pressed his back against his flat door, hyperventilating. A huge part of him had wanted to believe what was happening. But the fact was, he'd been through similar situations so many times that something about him told him he couldn't, shouldn't believe. When he next looked up, he discovered

Sherlock had followed him out and was standing in front of him.

Sherlock crouched slightly to John's height, his hands coming to John's shoulder in fear his old blogger might pass out. John flinched away from Sherlock's touch, the entire thing seeming rather surreal.

"John...John it's me." Sherlock said in a weary tone as if his presence needed clarifying to the distressed man in front of him.

"I can see that!" John blurted out once the hyperventilating had come to a stop. He couldn't be sure if he should differentiate whether or not he was angry or relieved because the feeling of both at once was a little overwhelming. "Three years, Sherlock!" John continued. "Three years I've been waiting when everyone told- How did you- Why did you- Why would you-?!" John found himself on the verge of crying, partly in frustration of not being able to finish his sentences to form a legitimate question.

Sherlock was becoming incredibly conscious of John's loud behaviour in the street. He understood completely that John was angry. He'd every right to be. Just not in the middle of the street.

"John, could we perhaps take this inside?" Sherlock buried his hands deep inside his coat pocket, the self consciousness becoming apparent.

John dug deep inside his jeans pocket for his key and aggressively unlocked the flat door. Sherlock hesitated, knowing that he didn't really belong there anymore. He wouldn't have been surprised if the entire flat had been redecorated, John had removed all is things and there was nothing left of him. But much to his surprise, that's not what he found. He noticed his laptop, the battered wall, the skull on the fireplace, his riding crop, even Sherlock's dressing gown lay lonely on the back of his chair that was tucked under his desk. Sherlock's mind wondered what else of him was left inside the flat but he stopped wondering when he actually paid attention to John. John had sunk into the armchair he most favoured, chest rising and falling quickly. Crying. He was crying.

Sherlock had never seen John so distraught like this. His initial reaction was to embrace him in a hug. That's what people needed when they were upset, wasn't it? But Sherlock knew better than to hug John on account of making things worse. He threw off his coat and blazer and knelt in front of him.

"If I could tell you what happened, I would. I promise you, John. I would."

Sherlock found himself close to crying. Something which he'd become used to in the past three years.

"I suppose it's another one of your secrets." John choked out without meaning to sound so angry.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No. I just can't say it. Please try and understand...Maybe eventually I'll tell you. But not now. Please not now."

John pulled his sleeves over his hands and wiped away his tears, mimicking the actions of a child. Something about the change in Sherlock's voice made John concerned. He looked up slowly.

Sherlock's head was bowed. In shame maybe? His hands were shaking. He was frightened of something. But frightened of what exactly? Any form of anger inside of John subsided. His crying came to a stop and he sat, studying the worn man in front of him. John had learned in the past three years to deduce people the way Sherlock did but not quite to Sherlock's standards. Trying to deduce Sherlock in such a state was pretty damn hard for John to do. But John wasn't sure of the difference between what he wanted to feel and what he should feel. He looked closer at Sherlock. Sherlock had scars that were just about visible under the collar of his shirt and John couldn't help but want to see if there were anymore.

Tiredly, he hauled himself out of his chair and pulled Sherlock up too, saying nothing. Sherlock gazed down at John, curious as to what he was doing. He was abut to complain when John began undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

"John, what are you-" Sherlock's body was still shaking a little but he didn't bat John's hand away because he had an inkling what John was looking for.

To John's despair, Sherlock was covered in bruises and a fair few scars. On the plus side, nothing looked too serious however Sherlock's ribs were more prominent than John last remembered. In fact, the first and last time John had seen Sherlock practically naked was at Buckingham Place when Sherlock turned up in a sheet which fell to his wait when Mycroft trod on it and even then, Sherlock had a well built body and was (as far as John knew) healthy. This time was different. Sherlock was battered and bruised and incredibly underweight.

"I'm okay, John." Sherlock spoke to the floor, head still bowed.

"No, Sherlock. No. This is not okay." John replied, adamant he wasn't going to cry again. He headed for the bathroom and Sherlock assumed he was meant tot follow, so he did.

John began running a bath and told Sherlock to remove the rest of a clothing. There was no need for Sherlock to object. John was a doctor, he'd seen plenty of patients remove their clothing so he did as he was told and removed his shoes, socks, trousers and underwear, a little embarrassed of the way he looked though John payed no attention. When he made sure Sherlock was in the bath and somewhat okay, John headed for Sherlock's room and stood staring at the clean pyjamas that were neatly folded on the made up bed. He thought back to the time when he'd made a start on the laundry and began to talk out loud.

"Sherlock, you were meant to do the washing today." John had called out. He'd stop, waiting for some form of reply like a "dull" or an irritated sigh. He soon came to realise that he was never going to get an answer but took comfort in talking out loud to a Sherlock that lived inside of his head.

John sighed and lifted the pyjamas from the bed and headed back for the bathroom.

"I'll be in the living room if you need me." John mumbled, setting the pyjamas down on the floor before heading back to his armchair.

Sherlock didn't reply, not feeling the need to. He tired gaze moved to the folded pyjamas on the floor. John had recently washed them, there were washing powder stains on the hem of the shirt. The visible creases were soft, new, meaning John had only recently folded them, too. This bothered Sherlock a little, the fact that John had still bothered to wash his clothes.

He sighed upon realising that the things John must have done in the past three years were fairly normal and same in comparison to the way he'd been living on his own. He'd refused almost everything that Mycroft's men had been bringing him in his safe house. All except for the newspapers. Mycroft would send his men to Sherlock with with food and water and notes often telling Sherlock to eat else he'd be force fed. Of course Sherlock would only refuse and turn his nose up, not caring for what his brother had to say. And after kicking up a huge fuss and being typically stubborn, it was only then that the newspapers would become part of the package. Sherlock had demanded information about John, finding himself caring deeply for the man that he once shared a flat with. Newspaper clippings, columns, even whole double page spreads would fill the four walls that surrounded Sherlock.

The more he read, the angrier he became. He was angry because he had to leave everything behind him. He was angry because Scotland Yard was falling to pieces without him but mostly he was angry that the press would simply not leave John alone. Everything that had happened on the day he jumped had nothing to do with John and the state he'd been left in was all Sherlock's fault. Or so he thought.

Sherlock felt is chest become heavy. He'd felt this countless of times before and knew only too well what would happen if he didn't get himself together. He hated the breakdowns he'd had. Sometimes they would be caused by over thinking and other times they would happen spontaneously but the part Sherlock hated the most was the times they were uncontrollable and would last sometimes on and off throughout the day.

He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his dirty curls. He hadn't the energy to stop and wash his hair and so he climbed out of the bath, quickly dried himself down and slipped into his now, oversized pyjamas. When he opened the bathroom door, he found John hunched over a mug of what he assumed was coffee, judging by the smell of the living room.

He stood a little awkwardly, not completely sure if he was meant to sit beside John or not. He decided against it and sat in the armchair, instead. John didn't move. Neither did Sherlock. The silence in the room was scrutinising and this forced John to put down his mug.

He spoke Sherlock's name but Sherlock spoke John's name simultaneously. The next few words continued that way.

"Listen-"

A half hearted smile.

"You go first.", "No, you."

Another silence.

John stayed silent this time in the hopes that Sherlock would start his own sentence again. So he did.

"John." His voice was almost inaudible.

John simply looked up, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"What they did to me...What they did is unforgivable." Sherlock's hands trembled in his lap. Everything about his body language showed clear signs of an anxiety attack.

The shaking hands, the rapid breathing, he was visibly sweating.

John sat forward on the sofa, feeling it a bad idea to go and actually sit with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, whatever it was, you're okay now. And I won't think of you any differently." John hoped his words would reassure Sherlock but they did nothing of the sort.

"John, don't be so idiotic." He snapped. His words were said harshly but he hardly meant them that way. "Evidently I'm not okay. Is it not obvious?"

"Yes, I can see you're not okay _now._" John replied in a calmer tone. "But you will be."

Sherlock brushed away the tears that dared to cascade down his cheeks.

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock knew the question was a rather childish one but any form of reassurance was needed.

"I know so." John replied, his face soft.

Sherlock nodded quietly and got up to sit next to John on the sofa.

After a moment or two, Sherlock lay down, tucking his feet behind John. John turned around, facing sideways on to Sherlock. He studied him again for the second time. Sherlock's pyjamas once fitted him but now, not so much. They practically drowned Sherlock and his mop of dark, messy curls fell a little over his eyes. Sherlock's eyes. They didn't gleam like they used to. They were dull and sad and John couldn't help but feel a stab of pain through his chest when he tried to imagine the minds of things that Sherlock must have been through.

"Sherlock, go to sleep." John murmured softly, draping a fleece blanket over Sherlock's fragile frame.

Sherlock yawned and nodded in the slightest.

John sat for a short while and watched Sherlock sleep. He looked a little more peaceful and a little less distressed.

John was sure of one thing- Sherlock needed fixing. And that's what he was determined to do.


End file.
